


Would that be Enough?

by literati42



Category: Batman (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics), Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Study, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, mentions of Cass Cain and Duke Thomas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:27:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25927369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/literati42/pseuds/literati42
Summary: A character study of Alfred through the ages as he tries to be everything the children in his life need. He watches them grow, and wonders, did he do enough?Canon compliant MCD only (Yes, it's Jason)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 38
Collections: Literati42 Commissions Trades Requests





	Would that be Enough?

**Author's Note:**

> I'm back to writing for this fandom! It has been a hot minute. I've missed you all my Batty friends :)
> 
> A commission for @shinnewn on twitter. I hope you enjoy it <3
> 
> Follow me on twitter @themythofpsyche for more of me ranting about Batfamily

At the end of each day, no matter how tired he was, Alfred would pause for a moment to ask himself one question: Did I do enough? It started in the days after Thomas and Martha Wayne died, when a young Bruce sat by the window in the lonely mansion for hours. Alfred brought him food he did not eat. He made him go to bed at a reasonable hour, even if Alfred was certain the child was not sleeping. Alfred tried to get him to talk without pushing too hard.

Have I done enough? Alfred asked himself each night.

Alfred’s entire life became about Bruce over the years as the child grew into a teenager. He took care of the growing child, keeping him cared for and relatively safe. Alfred loved him unconditionally and told him all the time. When it became apparent Bruce was not recovering from his parents’ death, Alfred tried to get him to go to therapy. He took the preteen Bruce to five different therapists.

With the first therapist, Bruce sat in stony silence for the full 45-minute session. Five times in a row, before Alfred decided a change was in order.

The second therapist did not get that much of a chance. Bruce climbed out the window of the waiting room while Alfred spoke to the man and ran back home.

The third and fourth therapists received the same treatment.

Alfred tried one more time, but that time, Bruce threw himself out of a moving car to avoid going.

Alfred stopped trying after that. When he went to bed that night, he knew he had not done enough. Alfred wondered if anything he did would ever be enough.

The question came up again and again as he watched Bruce grow into a brilliant but emotionally stunted adult. As he watched him become Batman, a hero for others with no sense of concern for himself, he knew he should have done more. He should have pushed harder, should have kept trying to get Bruce to open up.

Alfred watched Dick Grayson walking around the mansion. The child’s eyes were dark with pain as he adjusted to his new home. Alfred swore he would not make the same mistakes with Dick that he did with Bruce, but it turned out to be an unnecessary pronouncement. Dick was just easier to deal with than his adopted father had been. He talked to Alfred willingly about what he was going through. As time passed, Dick found his smile again and he never missed a chance to give the butler a hug.

Still, Alfred went to bed wondering if he did enough. Did he tell Dick he was loved enough to counter how bad Bruce was at showing it?

The butler patched up Dick’s arm from an injury. He watched the preteen sitting on the end of the med bay table, trying to look tough. “Master Dick,” Alfred said, laying a hand on the child’s shoulder. “While the tough mask is necessary when criminals are looking, you no longer need it.” He squeezed Dick’s shoulder, “You’re safe here.” Dick’s lip quivered. He buried his face in Alfred’s shoulder and held on, the pain, exhaustion, and fear getting the better of him.

Alfred wondered if he should push back against Bruce allowing the child in the field.

He did not though, in the end. Alfred buried his reservations and patched up the wounds, but the question returned to his mind every night once more. Did he do enough?

Alfred hoped that the presence of Dick would help Bruce. In some ways, it did. He brought joy into the mansion that had not existed since Thomas and Martha’s lives were snuffed out. Having someone other than himself to care for changed Bruce in some ways, but in some ways, he stayed the same.

Too soon, Dick outgrew the Robin persona and all the expectations that came with it. He pushed back, pushed away. Alfred remembered the day Dick moved out to become Nightwing.

“It’s not about you, you know that, right?” Dick asked, standing in the doorway of the kitchen. “I feel so…I feel so stifled.”

“Of course, Master Dick,” Alfred replaced the lid on the pot he was stirring and turned to look at the young ward. “This day was always going to come.”

Dick sighed, leaning on the doorway, “I wish Bruce could see it that way.”

“Master Bruce…” Alfred searched for a way to describe it, “Does not understand how to say goodbye in healthy ways. Perhaps, he has never had the chance to practice.”

“So, I get to be his practice goodbye?” Dick asked archly.

Alfred smiled slightly at the sarcasm, but walked over and put a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “You get to live your life, let me worry about him.” Dick hugged him, holding on tight. “And you come back and visit, Master Dick.”

“You? Always Alfred, always.”

Alfred did not do enough for Jason.

He asked the question at first, but he knew the answer without a doubt in the end.

“Master Bruce…”

“He’s gone,” Bruce said, staring out the same window he stared out when he lost his parents as a child. “He’s gone, Alfred.”

“Master Bruce…”

“It’s my fault. I wasn’t fast enough. I wasn’t there for him.”

Alfred heard his own thoughts reflected in Bruce’s words. They did not do enough for Jason. They did not do enough, and now he was dead. It was too late.

Alfred was not the same after Jason’s death. He still performed his daily tasks. He made certain Bruce had the option to eat even if the man frequently ignored it. He kept the mansion clean. He patched Bruce up after each new injury. Once a week, he cooked for Dick. He kept moving, but Alfred felt like he was just going through the motions. 

Maybe that was why he did not notice the change in Bruce.

It was an excuse, but it was not a good enough one to make Alfred feel better when a stranger, nonetheless a child, realized something changed in Bruce’s behavior before he did. Alfred felt a mix of pride and guilt when he thought back to the tenacious Tim Drake, with his observations, his camera, and his parental neglect. Tim watched Batman because the Caped Crusader was the only thing that made him feel safe when his parents were away on yet another business trip without him. It was his dedication that made him the only person to notice that Batman was escalating his level of violence.

Then Tim did a little escalation of his own. Not even a preteen yet, the child began stalking Batman with his faithful camera, trying to find answers. Tim Drake did what all the criminals in Gotham could not. He figured out the true identity of Batman and his two past Robins.

Tim tried to get Dick to return to Bruce, and when that did not work, he volunteered for Robin instead.

Alfred knew it was selfish of Bruce to allow this child to work with him after what happened to Jason. He knew it, just as he knew he was selfish for not stopping it from happening. But, when Tim came into their lives, Alfred felt like he was no longer in a fog. Bruce, now with another child to care for, changed too. Tim made their lives better, and Alfred was not strong enough to put a stop to it.

Despite this weakness, Alfred tried to do right by the child.

As the years passed, Alfred watched the intelligent, enthusiastic Tim grow into a brilliant but troubled teenager. He watched as anxiety, depression, and chronic insomnia set in.

“Master Timothy,” Alfred said, knocking on his door. “You need to eat.”

“Master Timothy,” Alfred said a little later, “You need to sleep.”  
“You need to take a break.”

“You need sunlight.”

Alfred found his waking thoughts occupied with keeping track of the teenager's movements and actions, but Tim was resistant to his help in a way the other two had not been.

“He’s so like you,” Alfred said to Bruce one day. The man looked up, frowning, and turning his eyes toward the Batcomputer where Tim sat working, hunched over and nursing a cup of coffee despite his youth.

“You said that like an insult,” Bruce replied.

“Just a warning,” Alfred answered. He walked over and dropped a blanket over the teenager's shoulders. Tim curled up into it without once stopping his work.

Then came Damian, Bruce’s biological son. Then came Jason, back from the dead.

For one shining moment, Alfred thought their family was growing, but Jason was not back to be a part of their family, and Damian had other ideas. Alfred watched the assassin raised child try to push Tim out of the family. He watched Damian succeed.

As Tim packed his bags, tears in his eyes, Alfred watched him from the doorway and knew that once again, he had not done enough.

“Master Timothy…”

“No, Alfred. Damian wants to be Bruce’s only son so much? Fine. Fine. Congratulations, Damian. You win.” Tim struggled to zip the bag up.

“This isn’t what Master Bruce wants.”

“Isn’t it?” Tim asked, whirling around, “How do you know?”

Alfred searched for the words, “I want you to stay,” was what came out. Tim’s shoulder sunk, some of the fight going out of him. The teenager walked over to Alfred.

“I’ll come see you, Alfred,” he said quietly, “It’s not about you.”

“Master Dick said that once as well.”

“Well, it’s true. You’ve been the only constant in my life.” Tim wiped at his eyes, “I’ll never forget that.”

Alfred wrapped Tim in a hug, and when the teenager curled into it like he was touch starved, Alfred wondered if he had not hugged him enough.

“Alfred, I always knew I was a replacement,” Tim said, “You don’t have to try and pretend I’m not.”

“You are not now, nor have you ever been a replacement to anyone,” Alfred replied, voice stern.

“Then why isn’t Bruce the one asking me to stay?” Tim asked. Alfred felt the words die on his tongue.

He watched Tim leave, ripping a piece of his heart free with him.

Alfred found Bruce in the Batcave. “Go after him.”

“Damian? He’s upstairs getting ready for dinner.”

“No, Timothy,” Alfred said. “You have to go after him.”

“If Tim wants to leave, I’m not going to stop him. I doubt if I could.” Bruce looked at him, “Weren’t you the one who said he was like me? Would you have been able to stop me from leaving?”

Alfred had always been patient, but he felt something like anger now. “He believes you don’t care for him.”

Alfred saw a flash of pain in Bruce’s eyes before the walls shut over them again. The other man looked away once more. “He’s better off.”

Then even though it filled him with guilt, Alfred let it go. “Come for dinner, Master Bruce.”

Despite the pain, the years that came had good moments too.

Some days, the mansion was full again. Alfred remembered one particular day when Dick came to visit on his birthday. The young man came in the morning, training with Damian and then singing happy birthday as he took over cooking—with very mixed results—for the day.

“Oh no, you didn’t tell me you were going to be cooking,” Tim’s voice came from behind him. Alfred felt his heart soar. He spun around to find Tim in the doorway of the kitchen. The teen smiled at him, “Hi Alfred. Sorry I haven’t visited for a while.”

“No apologies from you, Master Timothy,” Alfred said coming over. It was so like Tim to lead with his guilt. Tim walked across the room, and Alfred pulled him into a hug. “You’re too skinny.”

Tim laughed, “Well, I doubt Dick’s cooking will help.”

“Glad you could make it, Baby bird,” Dick replied. Alfred shot a grateful look Dick’s way, knowing exactly who would have told the third child in the family to come that day.

“Oh no, Dick’s cooking?”

Alfred thought he could not be more surprised, but with those words, in walked Jason. He came over and leaned an elbow on Tim’s shoulder. The butler looked to Dick for clarity, but he saw Dick was just as surprised. Alfred turned back to Tim and saw the look on the teen’s face.

Tim shrugged, “You deserved to have everyone together.”

Then Damian came in, “Are we being robbed?” Damian asked, giving a pointed look at Jason, and then a glare at Tim.

“Hello yourself, hellspawn,” Jason said, not releasing Tim.

“I have one wish on my birthday,” Alfred said, “No fighting, for tonight.”

“You’re going to have to set the exact parameters on what counts as a fight,” Jason replied.

“Yes, do you just want us to avoid bloodshed, or are bruises off the table?” Damian asked.

“I want you to get along,” Alfred paused, taking it back, “To not harm each other with your actions or your words for the night.”  
“Tall order, old man,” Jason replied, but his eyes were soft as he looked at Alfred.

Alfred got his wish. They bickered, anything less was simply a pipedream, but they were more patient with each other than he had seen in ages. Not one single knife was drawn. Alfred sat at his spot at the table, listening to the boys talk and joke and laugh. He felt his heart fill with warmth.

For one night, it would be enough.

A chirp sounded, and Dick looked at his watch. “Bruce is in the cave.”

“And that’s my cue,” Jason stood up, “Come on, Baby Bird,” he said to Tim, “Let’s get scarce before the old man shows up.”

“You don’t have to go,” Alfred said, leaning forward. Jason glanced at him, then exchanged a look with Tim.

“You did make a wish,” Jason replied. He came over and offered his hand to Alfred. The butler hugged him instead. He understood Jason’s meaning plainly. If Bruce came in, the tentative peace would slip. Damian would feel the need to show off, Jason would pick a fight, Dick would butt heads with Bruce, or Tim would find a way to blame himself for something. Perhaps a combination of all four. So Jason and Tim left, letting him have peace on his birthday.

Even if it hurt to see them go.

Soon, there was more of them.

At the Wayne Gala one night, Alfred looked across the crowd. Dick stood there talking to Damian. Tim stood with the newest members of their family, Cass and Duke. Jason was not there. He was somewhere in space with his Outlaws, but even at an intergalactic distance, he still checked in with Alfred regularly. Alfred knew he still kept in touch with Tim too.

“They all came,” Bruce said, coming up beside Alfred, “Well, almost.”

“Yes, sir,” Alfred replied.

“Is it too late, Alfred?” Bruce asked.

“For what, Master Bruce?”

“To do right by them?” Bruce asked. Alfred turned, glancing up at Bruce’s eyes. He watched the other man’s gaze go from one group of his kids to the other.

“They are still here. They are still alive, and so are you,” Alfred replied, “You can keep trying, sir.”

“Yes,” Bruce said as he started to head away, “But will it be enough?” He could not know he was asking the question always on Alfred’s mind.

Alfred felt heaviness in his heart. He still did not have an answer. Nothing he did ever seemed to be enough.

It was a close call. Alfred was not a young man, had not been in some time. He was far removed from his days as a soldier or from his time adventuring with Thomas Wayne. No, Alfred was an old man, even if he refused to ever use that term for himself, and when the mansion was attacked by the League of Assassins, he was not able to bounce back as fast.

The wounds were serious.

Alfred woke in the med bay the first time to find Dick, leaning forward and watching him sleep. “Hey, you’re awake.” Dick offered him one of his smiles, but it was worn around the edges with worry. Dick sat forward, “How do you feel?”

“Better than you appear to, Master Dick,” Alfred said. Dick laughed.

“I doubt that.” He shook his head, taking Alfred’s hand. “What would we do if we lost you?”

“You don’t have to find out yet,” Alfred replied, then squeezed his hands, “But you are resilient, you would find a way.”

“We would fall apart,” Dick replied, “You’re the one who holds us together. You always know where we all are. You always know what’s going on in our lives. No matter how complicated things get with Bruce, you’re the one who brings us all back.”

“I don’t know that I do all of that. I mostly kept you boys fed and dressed.” It must have been the drugs because Alfred said his thoughts out loud, “I was never sure it was enough.”

“No one has ever done more for me, Alfred,” Dick replied. He shook his head, “When I was a kid, you did so much more than make sure we had enough to eat. You invented all these games for us to play. You gave me a place where I could laugh and you told me it was okay. When I left, you were the one who told me I didn’t need to feel bad for finding my own path. You can’t tell me you don’t see what you’ve done for me. Enough? Alfred, you’ve done so much more than just enough.” Alfred was speechless, and maybe Dick read something of that in his face. “You should rest, Alfred. You’ve earned a lot of rest.”

The next time Alfred woke up, Damian was in the seat by his bedside. He was trying to look grown-up even though the seat leaned back a bit and prevented him from setting his feet on the floor. He shifted, “Alfred, Grayson told me you were saying ridiculous things about not doing enough for the Wayne family. As if your decades of service to this family could be insufficient? The League of Assassins has less dedicated servants than you, and they kill people for insufficient dedication.” Damian leaned forward, narrowing his eyes, “Perhaps you received a blow to the head we were unaware of. I will request brain scans.”

Alfred shook his head, “My brain is fine.”

“Then why say such idiotic things?”

“I look at you all, and I wonder if I could not have done more to make your childhood’s better.”

“Absurd,” Damian replied, “Perhaps the medication you are on is too strong for you to see logic.”

Alfred closed his eyes, “No,” he said, tone fond, “Nevermind, Master Damian. I just need rest.”

When he woke up the next time, Damian was asleep in the chair.

“He looks so innocent like that, doesn’t he?” Alfred turned his head toward Tim’s voice, finding the teen at his other side, sitting in the chair with his feet curled up under him. “Looks really are deceiving. Hey, Alfred.”

“Hello, Master Timothy.”

“Feeling any better?”

“Every time I wake up, I feel more clear.”

Tim leaned his chin on his hand. “Good. Because Dick was saying something about you and then Damian implied you might have brain damage.”

Alfred gave a tired sigh.

“Yeah,” Tim replied, “I thought I’d check for myself.” Tim was always touch starved, in part, Alfred thought, because he was bad at initiating physical affection. But in that moment, he laid his hand on Alfred’s arm. “I know what it feels like to wonder if you did enough, Alfred.” The teen let his hand fall away.

“Why would the two of you be feeling like that?”

Alfred looked over Tim’s shoulder to find Jason coming in.

“Hey, old man. Did you really fight Ra’s by yourself or was Dick exaggerating?”

“An exaggeration, Master Jason, I assure you.”

“He did take out one of the assassins though,” Tim replied, turning to his older brother. Alfred smiled fondly at the way Jason propped his elbow on the teen’s head. Tim batted him away, but there was a fondness between them. While their relationship started in a dark place—Jason was the originator of the “replacement” nickname and had once tried his hand at killing the teen—they were close now. Jason grabbed a chair, turning it around so he could sit on it backward. “Now, why were you two trying to figure out if you’ve done enough? You,” he pointed to Alfred, “Who hasn’t taken a vacation in his life and you,” he pointed to Tim, “Who thinks sleep gets in the way of valuable working time?”

“Alfred said something to Dick about not feeling like he was there for us enough when we were kids.”

Alfred wanted to object. These children—as they would always be in his mind—were discussing him as if he was not even there. Before he could, he saw Jason’s eyes soften.

“And I thought you were the wise one in the family,” Jason said to Alfred, shaking his head. “I have a lot of memories from before I died that I can’t bring myself to think about. There’s a lot of things that just taste bitter now, and the time before Bruce adopted me is even darker.” Jason’s eyes fell away from Alfred. “But when I think about my happiest moments from when I was a kid? They were all with you.” Jason smiled sadly, “You remember that time I ran away, and I only got two streets over before you caught up with me? And then you just acted like you’d been waiting for you there? We went for ice cream.”

“One time, you surprised me with a trip to the photography museum,” Tim said, “You came into my room when I was on a three-day insomnia sprint and said we had a mission. I didn’t even realize you didn’t bring the Robin costume until we got there.” He smiled fondly, “We spent the whole day just enjoying it, and then you got me coffee at the café on the corner.”

“It was decaf,” Alfred said.

Tim gasped, “Traitor,” he said.

“One time,” Jason said, “You got me a baseball glove and ball for my birthday and said it was from Bruce.  
“It was.”

“Then why was he just as surprised as me?” Jason replied, eyebrow raised.

“Alfred never forgot your birthday, even when you were gone,” Tim said, looking up at him. “He and I used to make a cake for it. We’d eat it in your old room, and Alfred would tell me stories about you.”

“That sounds morbid,” Jason replied, but Alfred saw that he was touched.

Tim shook his head, “It made me feel like I knew you, Jaybird.”

“When I came back, I had so much anger,” Jason said, “But not one single time did I ever think you didn’t care about me, Alfred. Not even when I didn’t have my soul. Some part of me always knew I mattered to you.”

Tim nodded in agreement, “I know it hurt you when I left, but you never stopped checking in on me.” He glanced at Jason, “He made me dinner and brought it over every week.”

“When I lived in the city, he did that for me too.”

“Dick said he did the same for him.”

“Well, not one of you can take care of yourselves,” Alfred replied, tears in his eyes. “I love you boys so much.”

“We know,” Jason replied, “That’s what we’re saying.”

“Why are you two being so loud?” Damian asked, stretching, “Pennyworth is supposed to be resting. Grayson!” He called, “Come collect the garbage.”

“Don’t get your tights twisted, hellspawn,” Jason replied.

“What’s going on?” Dick asked, coming down the stairs from the mansion above. His eyes widened as he saw Jason, and then softened on Tim, before fixing on Alfred. “You are supposed to be resting, which I don’t imagine these three are allowing you to do.”

“What do you mean, three?” Damian demanded.

Alfred laughed, the sound enough to shut them all up. “I love you all.”

“We love you too,” Dick said without reservation.

“Love is a sign of weakness, Grayson,” Damian said.

“Shut up, murder munchkin,” Jason replied, “You know what you mean to us, Alfred. Or after today, you better.”  
Tim nodded in agreement. “Get some rest, Alfred. We’ll be back.” He looked down into the older man’s eyes, “We’ll always come back for you.”

Maybe, Alfred thought as he drifted back into medicated sleep, it was all enough after all.


End file.
